


Recruiting Hawkeye

by Read_Like_Youre_Running_Out_of_Time (Jantique)



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Gen, Pre-Avengers (2012)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-30
Updated: 2018-10-30
Packaged: 2019-08-09 19:00:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16455533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jantique/pseuds/Read_Like_Youre_Running_Out_of_Time
Summary: Clint Barton (professional name: Hawkeye) was a mercenary. Or, as he liked to think of it, an independent contractor."So," Clint prompted, "you have a job for me?"The man nodded. "We might. I hope you'll consider working here, Mr. Barton. We offer very good health benefits, and you'll draw a base salary as well as being remunerated for each mission."OR,You catch more flies with honey....





	Recruiting Hawkeye

Clint Barton (professional name: Hawkeye) was a mercenary. Or, as he liked to think of it, an independent contractor. Not that there was a lot of choice. In his line of work, the organizations employing assassins were criminal ones: the Mafia, Irish mob, Bratva, whichever. Clint didn't want to get involved with any of them. They were amoral people doing bad things to good people.

Clint didn't mind killing someone who needed killing, and there were certainly enough of them in the world. Or better still, delivering a warning shot to some vulnerable part of the body, if it was hoped that the malefactor could be taught the error of his ways. But _he_ decided which contracts to take. He wouldn't kill someone for purely business reasons. Or if someone killed your kid, Clint would be more than happy to take out the guy who did it. But not _his_ kid.

And he flat-out refused to take any contracts where someone thought they could tell him how to do his job. He was good at his job. He delivered on time, within budget, with no messy evidence to lead back to his employers. But he picked his own perch, his weapon, his timing. That was the advantage of working for yourself.

Now he was sitting in an office across a desk from a man who, he had been informed, had a job for him. Youngish guy, maybe mid-thirties. Good looking. Fit, competent looking, like he wasn't afraid to get his hands dirty but knew the value of hiring a professional. Middle management, maybe - his suit was decent but not bespoke.

Clint himself was wearing a pair of shit-kickers, clean jeans, a button-down short-sleeved shirt, and an open leather vest. HELL yes, he was showing off his arms! They were his tools in trade. (As well as, let's be honest, one of his better features.) He leaned back in his chair, casually stretching. Hey, the guy was - as previously noted - not bad-looking. Maybe after the job was over, they could get a drink together. It had happened. But only after he'd been fully paid, of course. Pleasure was pleasure and business was business.

"So," Clint prompted, "you have a job for me?" 

The man nodded. "We might. I hope you'll consider working here, Mr. Barton. We offer very good health benefits, and you'll draw a regular base salary as well as being remunerated for each mission."

"Wha-?" Clint was confused. "Um ... I thought you had a contract for me."

"Oh, no. Well, not just at the moment, anyway. We'd like to offer you permanent employment as one of our agents."

Clint looked at him suspiciously, eyes narrowing. It didn't _smell_ like any of the mobs he knew. Still, who else was there? Well, there was one way to find out. 

Oh-so-casually, keeping his shoulders relaxed, he asked, "So, who are you?", waving his hand in the air to indicate a general 'you'. "I'm an independent contractor," he hastily added. 

"Yes, we know. Clinton Francis Barton, also known as Hawkeye. A crack shot, equally good with a number of firearms and a bow. Demonstrated athletic ability. No known relatives or close associates. An observable predilection for accepting morally justifiable contracts, and rejecting those calling for killing, ah, innocent bystanders." He nodded his head and gave a satisfied smile, although whether he was proud of Clint's morals or his own wealth of information, Clint couldn't say.

"As to who we are," he continued, " We're not one of the mobs. You could call us a quasi-governmental organization. Officially off the books, of course. We handle situations that the government can't legally touch. We're trying to make the world a better place. The fact that you obviously have moral scruples is a plus. We can work with amoral employees, but we'd rather that they believe in what they do, in what we're trying to bring about." 

Clint processed this. He was a little confused, but determined not to show it. "So, um, you're like the CIA?"

His would-be employer winced. "No, not the CIA. Which, first of all, is remarkably inefficient at keeping a low profile, as you must have noticed. The whole idea is to _not_ be noticed. We operate quietly, under the radar. Secondly, as far as I can tell, the CIA handles its problems piecemeal - one drug kingpin assassinated here, another dictator blackmailed there. They don't seem to have an overall scheme, a vision of how to shape the future. We do. We're trying to improve things for everyone. And our agents play a very real part in that process.

“If you join our organization, you will be a valuable member. You'll be part of a team, with a handler who will have your back, and not leave you twisting in the wind. We'll supply whatever tools or weapons you need, of course."

This was sounding pretty good to Clint - a dream job, actually. Too good to be true? Wait a minute....

"Okay, um, I have a couple of non-negotiables. A team, a handler – okay, fine. But I choose my spot, my timing, my weapon. If a handler or somebody wants to tell me something I don't know, info I'm not aware of, that's fine. But nobody is going to tell me that I have to sit on this rooftop here, when it's a stupid idea and a bad angle and I know that I'll be better off across the street!"

The other man thought this over and nodded. "Duly noted. But you will be expected to take any Intel you're given into consideration, and to work as a team. If that means a series of things needs to be done in a particular sequence, then your handler has the last word on that, even if you think you know better. He's probably be more experienced, or knows something you don't. You can always ask him or her why - _after_ the mission is over."

Hmm. That sounded about right to Clint - at least, that was his understanding of how organizations worked. Which was another reason why he liked to be independent. Something else he'd wanted to mention, though, what-? Oh, right!

"I won't hurt or kill kids. Ever. And if you need someone taken out, that's fine, but I won't hit their boyfriend or girlfriend or family."

His new friend looked delighted. "See? I knew that recruiting you would be a good idea! I have to tell you, I'm the one who pushed for you, and I see that I was right. That is exactly the kind of attitude we're looking for!

"Oh, did I mention that we offer full medical and dental coverage and also pay for continuing education? We're happy to have our agents improve their skills and learn new ones."

It was still all kind of pie-in-the-sky, Clint thought. He hadn't heard any actual specifics yet. But the lure of medical benefits sang a siren song to someone who _couldn't_ pop into a hospital if he was injured on the job.

"So ... medical? How does that work?"

"We have our own facilities around the world, plus, ah, _friends_ at larger hospitals for major trauma care. As I said, we take care of our people. We also have many research laboratories. We're very invested in cutting-edge science, although you probably won't have anything to do with that."

Clint shrugged. "Yeah, not my skill set." But … Medical. Dental. Free guns. Maybe free _bows_! He could probably get his GED. And the guy _smelled_ sincere. Clint like to think that he could read people pretty well, and the man in front of him wasn't just bullshitting. He clearly believed in what he was saying. Clint made up his mind. 

"Okay, so ... where do I sign?"

The recruiter pushed a piece of paper and a pen across the desk. "This is actually just an NDA, a Non-Disclosure Agreement. If you want to walk, or things don’t work out, we need to know that you won't tell tales out of school." 

This was in fact very encouraging. If they wanted him to sign an NDA, then they were obviously going to _let_ him walk, not just dump his body in the nearest landfill, if "things didn't work out". He picked up the pen and scrawled his name at the bottom of the page. Then he grinned and stuck out his hand.

"Well, Mr. Rumlow, you've got yourself a new employee." 

Rumlow beamed and shook his hand. "Welcome to HYDRA, Hawkeye." 

 

>\----->


End file.
